She'd done well, his little lovely.

Followed the instructions perfectly. Getting the hammer from his aunt's garage in Bakersfield (how had Kathryn Dance figured that one out?). Embossing the wallet with Robert Herron's initials. Then planting them in the well in Salinas. Making the fuse for the gas bomb (she'd said it was as easy as following a recipe for a cake). Planting the bag containing the fire suit and knife. Hiding clothes under the pine tree.

Pell, though, hadn't been sure of her ability to look people in the eye and lie to them. So he hadn't used her as a getaway driver from the courthouse. In fact, he'd made sure that she wasn't anywhere near the place when he escaped. He didn't want her stopped at a roadblock and giving everything away because she stammered and flushed with guilt.

Now, shoes off as she drove (he found that kinky), a happy smile on her face, Jennie Marston was chattering away in her sultry voice. Pell had wondered if she'd believe the story about his innocence in the deaths at the courthouse. But one thing that had astonished Daniel Pell in all his years of getting people to do what he wanted was how often they unwittingly leapt at the chance to be victims, how often they flung logic and caution to the wind and believed what they wanted to-that is, what he wanted them to.

Still, that didn't mean Jennie would buy everything he told her, and in light of what he had planned for the next few days, he'd have to monitor her closely, see where she'd support him and where she'd balk.

They drove through a complicated route of surface streets, avoiding the highways with their potential roadblocks.

"I'm glad you're here," she said, voice tentative as she rested a hand on his knee with ambivalent desperation. He knew what she was feeling: torn between pouring out her love for him and scaring him off. The gushing would win out. Always did with women like her. Oh, Daniel Pell knew all about the Jennie Marstons of the world, the women breathlessly seduced by bad boys. He'd learned about them years ago, being a habitual con. You're in a bar and you drop the news that you've done time, most women'll blink and never come back from their next restroom visit. But there're some who'll get wet when you whisper about the crime you'd done and the time you'd served. They'd smile in a certain way, lean close and want to hear more.

That included murder-depending on how you couched it.

And Daniel Pell knew how to couch things.

Yes, Jennie was your classic bad-boy lover. You wouldn't guess it to look at her, the skinny caterer with straight blond hair, a pretty face marred by a bumpy nose, dressing like a suburban mom at a Mary Chapin Carpenter concert.

Hardly the sort to write to lifers in places like Capitola.

Dear Daniel Pell:

You don't know me but I saw a special about you, it was on A & E, and I don't think it told the whole truth. I have also bought all the books I could find on you and read them and you are a fascinating man. And even if you did what they say I'm sure there were extreme circumstances about it. I could see it in your eyes. You were looking at the camera but it was like you were looking right at me. I have a background that is similar to yours, I mean your childhood (or absence of childhood (!) and I can understand where you are coming from. I mean totally. If you would like to, you can write me.

Very sincerely,

Jennie Marston

She wasn't the only one, of course. Daniel Pell got a lot of mail. Some praising him for killing a capitalist, some condemning him for killing a family, some offering advice, some seeking it. Plenty of romantic overtures too. Most of the ladies, and men, would tend to lose steam after a few weeks, as reason set in. But Jennie had persisted, her letters growing more and more passionate.

My Dearest Daniel:

Today I was driving in the desert. Out near Palomar Observatory, where they have the big telescope. The sky was so big, it was dusk and there were stars just coming out. I couldn't stop thinking about you. About how you said no one understands you and blames you for bad things you didn't do, how hard that's got to be. They don't see into you, they don't see the truth. Not like I do. You would never say it because your modest but they don't see what a perfect human being you are.

I stopped the car, I couldn't help myself, I was touching myself all over, you know doing what (I'll bet you do, you dirty boy!) We made love there, you and me, watching the stars, I say "we" because you were there with me in spirit. I'd do anything for you,

Daniel…

It was such letters-reflecting her total lack of self-control and extraordinary gullibility-that had made Pell decide on her for the escape.

He now asked, "You were careful about everything, weren't you? Nobody can trace the T-bird?"

"No. I stole it from a restaurant. There was this guy I went out with a couple years ago. I mean, we didn't sleep together or anything." She added this too fast, and he supposed they'd spent plenty of time humping like clueless little bunnies. Not that he cared. She continued, "He worked there and when I'd hang out I saw that nobody paid any attention to the valet-parking key box. So Friday I took the bus over there and waited across the street. When the valets were busy I got the keys. I picked the Thunderbird because this couple had just went inside so they'd be there for a while. I was on the One-oh-one in, like, ten minutes."

"You drive straight through?"

"No, I spent the night in San Luis Obispo-but I paid cash, like you said."

"And you burned all the emails, right? Before you left?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good. You have the maps?"

"Yep, I do." She patted her purse.

He looked over her body. The small swell of her chest, the thin legs and butt. Her long blond hair. Women let you know right up front the kind of license you have, and Pell knew he could touch her whenever and wherever he wanted. He put his hand on the nape of her neck; how thin, fragile. She made a sound that was actually purring.

The swelling within him continued to grow.

The purring too.

He waited as long as he could.

But the bubble won.

"Pull over there, baby." He pointed toward a road under a grove of oak trees. It seemed to be a driveway to an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of an overgrown field.

She hit the brakes and turned down the road. Pell looked around. Not a soul he could see.

"Here?"

"This's good."

His hand slid from her neck down the front of her pink blouse. It looked new. She'd bought it just for him, he understood.

Pell lifted her face and pressed his lips against hers softly, not opening his mouth. He kissed her lightly, then backed away, making her come to him. She grew more and more frantic, the more he teased.

"I want you in me," she whispered, reaching into the back, where he heard the crinkle of a bag. A Trojan appeared in her hand.

"We don't have much time, baby. They're looking for us."

She got the message.

However innocent they look, girls who love bad boys know what they're doing (and Jennie Marston didn't look all that innocent). She unbuttoned her blouse and leaned over to the passenger seat, rubbing the padded bra against his crotch. "Lie back, sweetie. Close your eyes."

"No."

She hesitated.

"I want to watch you," he whispered. Never give them more power than you have to.